


Becoming

by orphanghost



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Banter, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Alistair, Sub Alistair (Dragon Age), Teasing, The Warden is an important part of the dynamic but not present in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6198187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphanghost/pseuds/orphanghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Oh, this is nice.’ Zevran throws himself back on the bed, bouncing a little and then scooting to settle against the pile of cushions at the head board. He stretches like a cat in the warm glow of the candle light. ‘It is not Orlais nice, but it is nice nonetheless. I was worried we would be put up in some damp, bleak room, smelling of brine.’ </p><p>Leaning against the wall, Alistair starts to remove his armour. He throws one pauldron to the floor, where it lands with a loud <i>clunk</i> and he winces slightly. His whole body feel exhausted and heavy, weighed down with more than metal. ‘You <i>would</i> miss Orlais.’</p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>  <i>In which Alistair doesn't get to come. Not once. Not at all. Queen's orders.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Becoming

‘Oh, this is nice.’ Zevran throws himself back on the bed, bouncing a little and then scooting to settle against the pile of cushions at the head board. He stretches like a cat in the warm glow of the candle light. ‘It is not Orlais nice, but it is nice nonetheless. I was worried we would be put up in some damp, bleak room, smelling of brine.’ 

Leaning against the wall, Alistair starts to remove his armour. He throws one pauldron to the floor, where it lands with a loud _clunk_ and he winces slightly. His whole body feel exhausted and heavy, weighed down with more than metal. ‘You _would_ miss Orlais.’ 

‘What is there not to miss? Ah, the architecture. The gardens! Our rooms there were marvellous, were they not? The flowers under our window, the sweet smell of peonies wafting in on the warm breeze.’ 

‘The snobbery. The weird masks. And why won’t any of them say what they mean? It’s like, I’m trying to avoid a war, here!’ 

‘Mm.’ Zevran makes an acknowledging sound, but he doesn’t actually appear to be listening. His eyes glaze over as he looks out the window at the cloudy grey sky of Kirkwall. ‘The wine, though, yes? And the little pastries. They were this small.’ He looks back at Alistair and gestures, bringing his fingers into a little “O”. ‘Did you have one? They delivered them to our rooms. They were so sweet!’ 

‘You ate them all before I got back from that nine hour meeting. Nine hours! Zevran! Nine!’ 

‘Oh, regrettable. You missed out, no? Little apricot pieces, you see. They were-‘ 

‘Yes, you already described them in detail.’ With several more heavy _thunks_ , Alistair manages to shed all of his pieces. Finally he falls back onto the bed and lets out a long, relieved sigh, the tension going out of his body as he hits the mattress. ‘This is it for me. I am never leaving this bed again.’ 

Zevran pokes the toe of his leather boot into Alistair’s cheek. With effort, Alistair turns his head to look at the elf, who is now smirking. ‘While I would not complain for myself, I do not exactly think that wise, your majesty,’ he says. ‘What would the queen say?’

‘Well, it’s not a question of wise. It’s over. I’m done. My limbs have deserted me. I’m more bed than man.’ 

‘What a shame. Your limbs are some of your more becoming features, I think.’ 

Alistair snorts out a laugh. ‘Thanks.’ 

‘Not your most becoming, of course.’ 

‘My winning smile, right?’ 

Sitting up, Zevran reaches down to start pulling at the laces on his boots. He winks. ‘Oh, absolutely.’ 

After a few moments, the elf tugs off his shoes and throws them vaguely in the same direction as the pile of armour that Alistair stripped off when they came into the room. Alistair feels a bit bad for the mess that they are making. Even if Knight-Commander Meredith has been a nightmare today, the Seneschal at least did put them up in the nicest suite in the grand Hightown building which should, rightfully, house the Viscount. They shouldn’t trash it. 

Rolling his shoulders, Alistair cricks his neck as Zevran moves to kneel on the bed and look down at him. 

Alistair quirks a grin. ‘Heeeey,’ he says hopefully. ‘Speaking of becoming?’ 

‘Ha!’ Leaning down, Zevran presses a fond kiss to Alistair’s hairline. ‘I think not. I know where my loyalties lie, yes? As should you.’ 

Alistair pouts. ‘I have had a very stressful few weeks, you know.’ 

‘We have all been working extremely hard,’ Zevran says airily, waving his hand. ‘It is the nature of the thing. I, myself, have barely had an hours rest.’ 

‘You have not.’ Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Alistair shoots a glare at Zevran. ‘You have been lounging around and eating pastries and… and brushing your hair!’ 

Sighing, Zevran says, ‘Ah, but are we all not convinced it is our job which is the hardest?’ 

‘ _Dear diary_ ,’ Alistair says, mimicking Zevran’s accent abysmally. _‘Today I woke up well into the afternoon, ordered a bath drawn for me and a glass of Vint-9 Rose. Then I soaked for an hour and ate a plateful of fine cheeses. Poor Alistair returned to our rooms hours after sundown, bone-deep exhausted and soul broken from talking circles with Orlesian royals to no result. Then I drank more wine, lounged around naked until bedtime and passed out while my king stayed up all night answering missives and developing a hunch back._ ’ 

‘I did invite you to join me in the naked lounging and drinking, no?’ 

‘And when I said I had work to do, you draped yourself all over me and groped my—my…well. You groped me. Naked! It was naked draping! And groping!’ 

‘I do not recall you complaining.’ 

‘I definitely recall me complaining.’ 

‘Yes, well, they were baseless complaints,’ Zevran says lightly. ‘I have been sent here with a mission, and I intend to keep my word to your lady.’ 

‘I hate your mission.’ 

Smiling, Zevran strokes Alistair’s hair away from his face and Alistair sighs. It is warmer in Kirkwall than back home in Ferelden. Not as warm as Orlais was, but sticky with humid air that makes his skin crawl when he is trapped in his armour all day. ‘I do apologise then,’ Zevran teases. ‘Allow me to make it up to you?’

Alistair makes a soft noise in his throat and reaches up to pull the elf down towards him. His fingers tangle in that long, soft hair, and he nuzzles into Zevran’s neck, snuffling at his skin. Zevran isn’t gross and sweaty like he is – he’s used to much warmer climates than this, and he’s spent the day in a cotton tunic and his usual light leathers, legs bare and brown. 

It’s been driving Alistair crazy. Maker help him. He’s been conditioned, like a dog being tempted with a hand it thinks might hold a treat. Wives, right? Always banning you from coming and then sending sexy Antivans on your diplomacy voyages to tease you and ensure you don’t jerk one out. Typical.

‘Here,’ Zevran says, nudging him away just far enough that he can pull the undershirt Alistair is wearing up and over his head. ‘We are on our way home, are we not? You shall be reunited with your love soon.’

‘Mmm,’ Alistair hums as Zevran’s hands slide down his chest and stomach to tug at the laces at the front of his breeches.

When the elf’s hand slips inside the fabric of his trousers to wrap around his prick, the hum in the back of Alistair’s throat becomes a groan and his hips buck up. ‘You are anticipating it, no?’ 

‘Oh, maker, yeah.’ 

‘And you would not want to disappoint her.’ Zevran isn’t stroking him. He’s just lightly curling his hand around him, thumb tracing barely-there circles over the head of his slowly hardening prick. 

‘I already…’ 

Zevran laughs, tightening his grip. ‘We shall not count such mishaps,’ he snickers. ‘Such things are unavoidable.’ 

Alistair flushes, thinking back to the morning back in Orlais that he had woken up in their bed feeling flushed and hot from more than the warm morning sun and Zevran’s body curled against him, sound asleep. It had taken a few moments before he realised the discomfort in his drawers wasn’t just the tension that he had woken up with every morning for the past three bloody weeks. He was actually sticky and messy and achingly, disappointingly, regretfully _satisfied_. Like he was fourteen again. 

‘I do not know if I agree with our dear queen,’ Zevran continues, grinning. He pulls his hand away from Alistair’s prick for a moment to shuffle down the bed and pull his trousers off at the ankle. Alistair raises his hips and knees to make it easier. ‘Although I am obliged to obey her whims, of course, I do not believe it is healthy to keep a man – particularly a robust young man as yourself – in such a state of continuous denial. Surely it will lead to disharmony.’ 

‘Weeeell, you could help a guy out, if you really feel that way?’ 

‘Alas, no. I did think, when we started this journey, that perhaps I should refrain for myself also. Out of solidarity, yes?’ 

‘That didn’t go well,’ Alistair comments, thinking back to their first night of travel, staying in the nicest of the rundown inns along the road to the coast when Zevran had stretched out on their bed and touched himself slowly, so slowly, until he arched his back, gasping into the pillow just inches from Alistair’s face, climaxed and then said _‘And none for you.’_

‘I saw the error of my ways quickly, yes.’ Cocking his head, Zevran raises himself up onto his knees and shuffles up the bed, swinging his leg over to sit astride Alistair’s thighs. He looks down at the naked man, surveying him almost clinically. ‘Oh, look at you, my dear.’ He reaches forward and prods Alistair’s erection with one finger, tsking. ‘Very needy. Naughty indeed.’ 

Alistair flushes. ‘Look, okay? You didn’t exactly help yesterday with all that nonsense in the carriage.’ 

‘I was under direct orders, I am afraid. That was mandated nonsense.’ 

‘Oh?’ Alistair asks sceptically. ‘My wife sent urgent word to you telling you to put your hands in my drawers on just any carriage ride in the Free Marches when we find ourselves in semi-private, did she?’ 

‘No, no, no. Of course not. She did not mandate privacy.’ 

‘Why does she write more to you than me?’ Alistair muses, sulking slightly. 

‘I will show you her letters if you would like. She is not asking after my day, I assure you. They are mostly lists. Descriptive lists. Suggestions, even. I have seen what she sends you. Much more romantic. Sickeningly so, one could say.’ 

Alistair sighs, a dreamy smile gracing his expression. ‘Yeah… They are romantic, aren’t they?’ He reaches out toward Zevran, tugging at his hips. ‘C’mere.’ 

But the elf responds with a shake of his head. He lifts one hand up to his hair, the other holding up in a motion for Alistair to stop. He drops his hands back down to the bed obediently. With deft fingers, Zevran tugs the ribbon out of his hair which has been holding in his braids. The ribbon is a new addition, picked up in Orlais. It’s a soft golden colour which almost blends in with his hair and is made of a fine, soft silk. 

‘Stay still, my sweet boy,’ he says to Alistair as his hair falls out around his face in waves where the braids are loosening. Ribbon still in hand, he reaches down to stroke Alistair’s prick, pressing it into his belly as he rubs him. 

‘Ngh,’ Alistair says coherently. 

‘We must be well rested for a long journey tomorrow, yes?’ Zevran says pleasantly. ‘We shall not play for long tonight.’

‘Kay,’ Alistair says verbosely. 

Zevran chuckles. ‘Nonetheless, I think you are nearing your wits end. We would be wise to take some precautions.’ He takes one end of the ribbon in each hand and slides it down Alistair’s prick. The soft touch of the silk is enough to make him gasp, but the elf keeps sliding it lower, under his balls. He then pulls the ribbon up around the shaft of Alistair’s erection and wraps it in a criss-cross of loops around his testes and the base of his prick. Alistair feels his cock twitch. It feels almost too tight; but only almost. 

With a flourish, Zevran ties the ribbon off in a bow and exclaims, ‘A present? For me?!’ 

A strangled laugh bubbles up out of Alistair’s chest. ‘Will you kiss me?’ he asks, craning his neck to look Zevran in the eyes. 

The elf crawls up his body to brush his lips lightly over Alistair’s (‘Here?’ he asks), and then ducks his head down to press a sloppy kiss to the head of his prick, and says, ‘Or here?’ 

Alistair moans, pleasure shooting through him as Zevran’s tongue darts out to swipe over his slit. ‘Uh. Either. Both.’ 

‘I have only one pair of lips, my friend.’ Zevran sits up a little, but brings his hand up to pull tight strokes on Alistair’s prick.

‘That’s – ah, maker – that’s a real shame.’ 

‘Criminal, is it not? You shall have your second pair of lips again before long, however.’ He leans back down to suck lightly at Alistair’s prick for a moment, perhaps deciding that that is where his kisses are best spent. Then he pulls back, still stroking him tight and slow. ‘Will that not be nice? To have me down here again, kissing you as I kiss you now…’ Cutting himself off, Zevran sucks him down again once more, then continues to speak, wiping his mouth with his free hand. ‘While our dear love kisses you proper and tangles her sweet fingers in my hair to hold me in place as she says, yes, you may.’ 

Alistair’s hips buck up off the bed. Quickly, Zevran tightens his grip around the base of his shaft, holding off his orgasm. ‘Ah, ah, ah. No.’ 

‘ _Please_ ,’ Alistair begs. 

‘And lie to your wife? I value my life, ser.’ He climbs off Alistair’s thighs so that he is no longer sitting astride him and instead gets up off the bed. He slaps Alistair’s thigh as he passes, wandering in the direction of their packs. ‘Open your legs,’ he says, stripping quickly out of his own clothes. 

Alistair does immediately, any embarrassment between them long since forgotten. He spreads his legs apart and reaches out for a pillow from the top of the bed to prop behind his head. He’s still taking deep, calming breaths, arousal curling tight in his stomach. Across the room, Zevran rustles around in one of his bags for a moment before he comes back over, holding a bottle of oil and frowning. 

‘We are almost out. Most unfortunate.’ 

‘There enough?’ Alistair asks, pushing him himself up on one forearm to look at the little glass bottle. Zevran upends it over his palm, the slick liquid spilling out briefly before trailing off into a few scant drops. 

‘We will make do, I think,’ he says, climbing back onto the bed carefully so as not to spill any. Without ceremony, he sits between Alistair’s spread legs and tilts his hand to pour most of the oil onto Alistair’s hole, slicking up his fingers as he does. He touches him messily and slowly – gathering up any oil as it spills down Alistair’s crack and pushing it inside him. It isn’t as though it has been long since they last did this, so Alistair’s body is not resistant. With a happy sigh, he melts into the bed. All the tension from the long day has more or less evaporated from his body, replaced by a different sort of deep, resonating anticipation. 

He gasps as Zevran pushes two fingers easily inside him, rubbing one hand soothingly up the flank of his thigh. The elf’s skilful fingers crook and easily find that spot inside Alistair that has him writhing, has him opening his legs and body forward, pushing down against Zevran’s hand for more. He wriggles into the sensation, mumbling incoherent nonsense as he does. The ribbon around his prick is tickling at his entrance where Zevran is fingering him, almost infuriatingly light in sensation. 

‘You are being very good,’ Zevran praises and climbs up Alistair’s body to press kisses to his chest as he buries another finger deep inside him. Alistair grunts at the stretch, but moans when the elf’s lips graze over his nipple, tongue darting out to swirl over the sensitive skin. It goes on for a while – Zevran’s fingers buried deep inside him, sending maddening sparks of pleasure up Alistair’s spine and his mouth on Alistair’s nipples, kissing and teasing. 

Finally, when he is loose and stretched and slick as he will be, Zevran shifts a little bit more to lie alongside Alistair. His hand stills inside him, fingers curled slightly so that Alistair wriggles and trembles a bit desperately against him. ‘My proposition,’ Zevran murmurs, ‘is this: I finish inside you, now, yes?’ 

‘And then I can come?’ 

‘Always optimistic,’ Zevran chuckles. ‘No. And then I roll you over and massage you until you are so relaxed and just a puddle of a man, see, that you cannot help but fall asleep, rather than lying awake all night wanting to finish. How does that sound, hm?’ 

Alistair legs out a long sigh as Zevran curls and uncurls his fingers inside him. ‘Perfect,’ he agrees. 

‘You are saving it all for her,’ the elf reassures him. ‘You do not want to waste anything on little old me, I promise you.’ 

‘Weeell…’ 

‘No. Shh.’ Zevran pulls his fingers out of him with a slick, strange sound and Alistair whines at the sudden feeling of being bereft. It doesn’t last long, however. Zevran quickly moves to kneel between his legs, lifting up Alistair’s spread thighs and shuffling his own knees under them. He takes hold of his cock and angles the head towards Alistair’s entrance. The slow push as Zevran presses inside him makes Alistair’s swollen prick twitch, precum dripping onto his stomach. 

As Zevran pushes deeper inside, filling him, Alistair has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop himself from hurtling towards sudden orgasm. He’s surprised by how immediately he feels overpowered by the sensation, quickly shooting his hand down to squeeze around the base of his prick to hold himself off. He breathes in ragged, rapid gasps as he tries to pull himself together, Zevran bottoming out inside him. 

‘My apologies,’ Zevran breathes, his eyes fluttering closed as he tilts his head back. His hips roll in a slow thrust that has Alistair’s back arching. ‘Too much, too – ah! – fast, hm?’

‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,’ Alistair replies, face scrunching up as he tries to get his body under control. ‘Darkspawn. Ah. Ah, spiders. Ah! Broodmothers. Broodmothers!’ 

Zevran’s lips quirk. ‘Your bedroom talk could use some work.’ 

‘Shut _up_ ,’ Alistair groans, as Zevran rolls his hips again and pleasure thrums through his body. His prick jerks, fluid leaking from the head in a short, aborted spurt. Alistair bites his tongue and muffles a scream of frustration behind his hand. 

One hand bracing himself against Alistair’s chest, Zevran groans as he leans forward to thrust deeper. He keeps his movements measured and slow, breaths quickly becoming fast and uneven. Sweetly, he reaches for one of Alistair’s hands and takes it, palm up, to kiss. His breaths are damp pants against the skin of Alistair’s palm. 

‘Ah, you are wonderful,’ he murmurs, voice trembling slightly. ‘Hold on only a few more—more moments.’ 

Easier said than done, Alistair thinks. He feels like his whole person has been reduced to the throbbing sensation of his prick begging for release and the deep pleasure of the elf’s slow, rolling movements inside him. He blinks hazily up at Zevran, whose face is slack with pleasure and curls his fingers against the elf’s cheek, thumb stroking at his tattoos. He knows he is making embarrassing noises, some of them loud enough to be heard outside the room, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.

After a few more trembling moments, Zevran presses an open mouthed kiss to Alistair’s palm and then stills, a low groan escaping his lips. His hips jerk once, and then he is spilling inside Alistair - who arches his back and tenses around him as he tries, yet again, to fight himself back from the edge. 

As he pulls out, Zevran swirls his finger in the little pool of precum that has collected on Alistair’s belly button. ‘Oh my poor king,’ he mutters sympathetically. 

Alistair nods, thighs trembling as he slowly stretches his legs out on the bed. He can feel a longing ache inside him where he is still open and wanting, and the slightly unusual sensation of Zevran’s come tricking out of him onto the bedsheet below. Poor Alistair indeed. ‘I’m going to diiiieeee,’ he whines dramatically. 

‘Ah, but I hope not!’ Zevran flattens his palm and rubs the messy smears of precum into Alistair’s skin, who pulls a face. But with one quick pat to Alistair’s tight, neglected balls, Zevran nudges him to roll onto his stomach. ‘Let me help relieve you in the only way I can.’ 

‘You could suck me off,’ Alistair points out.

‘I am under explicit actions not to. “Do not suck Alistair off,” your lovely wife told me. “No matter how much he begs or how pathetic he seems.”’ 

‘She ruled out “pathetic”, did she? Dammit. Taking away my one sure fire seduction technique there.’ 

‘She knows you very well indeed.’ 

Alistair smiles. ‘She does, doesn’t she? I love her so much.’ 

‘As do we all. A wonderful woman, no doubt.’ He straddles Alistair’s legs in a smooth movement once more and settles down, getting comfortable. ‘Here. Just relax. Do not think about the magnificent sex you just had, or your aching member, please.’ 

Alistair starts to say ‘Easier said,’ but his voice trails off into a low groan as Zevran’s hands begin to massage him. He strokes up his back, thumbs exerting pressure along the length of his spine, and then rubbing slow, firm circles in the tight muscles at his neck. ‘Maker,’ he moans instead. It takes all his willpower to stop himself jerking his hips and grinding into the bedsheets to find his release. It would be easy enough. 

But slowly, the desire begins to ease out of him with the strong, steady work of Zevran’s hands as he takes him apart. He kneads at his shoulders until Alistair is drooling against his pillow, and massages slowly all the way down his back, down his thighs, right to his feet where he rubs at every single toe until Alistair is absolutely incapable of movement. As the elf works the tension out of every inch of his body, Alistair feels himself begin to drift, his brain getting foggy and his arousal reduced to a dull ache of remembrance. 

He may actually drift off, because he feels like he jerks awake when Zevran finally stops. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly, and finds the elf kneeling beside him and peering into his face with a catlike smile. 

‘Ah good, still alive,’ Zevran comments. 

‘Hnnghhh,’ Alistair says, and rolls enough to grab Zevran around the waist and pull him down beside him. 

‘Oh, we are cuddling now?’ Zevran asks. Alistair nods and nuzzles behind his ear, blond hair tickling his mouth and nose. ‘I am glad you are not cross, no? I would be.’ He slips his finger down between them to tug at the ribbon still around Alistair’s prick. It loosens easily and comes away, and Alistair feels a rush of relief as some of the aching pressure releases from his balls. 

‘Well, we’re nearly home,’ he mumbles, grinning. He’s about to drift off to sleep, he knows it. He tries to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids feel weighted and heavy. He lets them close, and just feels the brush of Zevran’s lips against his jaw before he passes out. 

‘We are indeed,’ Zevran murmurs against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> I am [orphanghost](http://orphanghost.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi!


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